


i wrote a song (and called it blue)

by ImotoChan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, M/M, a songfic kinda, bc keith broke his heart, college au i guess??, haha - Freeform, i might have cried while writing this, is featured, klangst, lance runs away to new york, musician lance, the song 'new york' by snow patrol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 07:05:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11352339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImotoChan/pseuds/ImotoChan
Summary: And no matter how many songs Lance wrote, no matter how many angry letters he wrote and never sent, no matter how many clubs he went to and people he kissed, Lance could not bring himself back to life.





	i wrote a song (and called it blue)

**Author's Note:**

> hahahaha *pours all my frustrations into my writing* howdy yall i hopeu enjoy this trainwreck  
> pls listen to this and cry https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mIlNguMTPXI

_ Swipe. Delete. Swipe. Delete. Swipe. Delete. Swipe-- _

 

Lance stares at the photo on his phone, at the bright smile plastered on pale cheeks, and the crinkles around purple eyes, but mostly, the way the eyes looked at him: with a gentleness he had never known before. 

 

(He cannot find it in himself to delete that one.)

 

Lance continues scrolling, continues to angrily delete any other photo with  _ his _ face, continues to pause and wonder what exactly the fuck what wrong before deleting and deleting and deleting. 

 

The clock on his phone screams at him to go to bed already, but Lance does not (can not) close his eyes. Closing his eyes would be like letting himself believe that everything was okay, but it wasn't, and never would be. 

 

The city outside Lance's apartment is loud, he can hear cars beeping and people shouting, he can see lights through the window that are far, far in the distance. Lance had moved here because he wanted to get away, he thought maybe in a city like New York he'd find the loneliness he was looking for, while never really being alone. He found it, in a sense, but it hurt a lot more than he thought it would.

 

His guitar sits propped up against the wall near the balcony, the strings beginning to gather dust. He hasn't written anything in weeks, hasn't played anything for just as long, and his little Lunacita is calling out to him. His fingers twitch and he aches to touch her, but his legs are too heavy to lift himself off the couch. 

 

Lance doesn't know what went wrong.

 

(He can guess, though. It probably started right when he was born. It was probably the moment his father left and his sister cried, or the second that Lance let himself love someone. Maybe it was the time that Lance ran to  _ his _ house in the middle of the night because his mother found out he was bi. It was probably when he picked up the guitar his mother's boyfriend had given him, the moment Lance started strumming and suddenly felt like he could find an escape. Maybe it was the moment  _ he _ told Lance he loved him, but as a friend, always as a friend. Or maybe it was when Hunk told him he was moving away, moving to a different country, but insisted they would remain friends forever. Maybe it was how he hasn't spoken to Hunk properly in a year. It could be because of the time Pidge said that Lance was being a 'fucking pussy' for not telling  _ him _ , the way Pidge cut him off for months, the way they spoke sparsely after that. Maybe it was the way Lance's little sister cried at his mother's funeral. Or the way  _ he _ had held Lance while Lance cried and cried and cried. The way  _ he _ had looked when Lance told him he wasn't going to college but to a city across the country. And the way how, for a moment, Lance thought  _ he _ would try to stop him. Maybe it was the moment he didn't try to stop him. 

 

Maybe it all started because Lance was a useless, useless,  _ useless _ person.)

 

And no matter how many songs Lance wrote, no matter how many angry letters he wrote and never sent, no matter how many clubs he went to and people he kissed, Lance could not bring himself back to life. 

 

Lance stands now, wearily, and makes his way to his Lunacita. He plops down in front of her, picking her up and cradling her and mumbling a string of apologies. 

 

He was sorry for not being smart enough, he tells her, sorry for not being good enough to take her to some big stage. He was sorry for being unable to play her, sorry for all the things he could never be. He was sorry he couldn't prove himself, sorry he couldn't find a way to be something without  _ him _ .

 

And most importantly, he tells her he is sorry he ran away. 

 

Lance would like to think if his Lunacita could talk back, she would tell him it was okay. That she would tell him there will be time, that there will be time to become stronger and better, that there will be time to sing and write and love, and that there will be time to go back and face the fears he once held. 

 

Lance holds her close, fingers resting on the strings. He can hear his phone ringing, frowning because he was almost certain he had silenced it. The only person who called anymore was Shiro, and that was to try and make Lance come back or at least speak to  _ him _ .

 

And Lance hates how much he wants to. How much he wants things to be how they were before he spilled his heart through music and  _ he _ had picked it up and torn it all apart. 

 

_ "I-I'm not gay." _

 

_ "Oh." _

 

_ "Sorry." _

 

Lance hates how he let himself think he could have something good, something real and warm and gentle. 

 

_ "Where are you going?" _

 

_ "New York." _

 

_ "What about college? I thought we were both-- _ "

 

Lance can't believe he ever had hope. After everything, after all the cold, terrible things that the world had thrown his way, Lance can't believe he thought he could just write songs and think everything would become okay.

 

_ "You don't understand,  _ Keith _." _

 

_ "Then explain it, Lance!" _

 

_ "How many times do I have to say it?" _

 

Seven months. It's been seven months since Lance has heard  _ his _ voice and it still echoes through his head. 

 

_ "What's wrong with staying friends?" _

 

_ "I fucking love you, Keith, okay? You know that, so why are you still--" _

 

_ Why are you still making everything hurt so much? _

 

And the second he hopped on the plane he didn't regret it. He didn't regret it until everything (everything being his two suitcases of clothes and one box of music) was unpacked and his apartment felt so empty. He picked up Lunacita and spilled out all his hatred and melancholy and yet, it wasn't good enough. It wasn't the emotion that all the record labels were looking for. 

 

He wrote and wrote and wrote but it was never good enough.

 

Lance's phone rings again and he finally crawls over to it, picking it up and mumbling a hello into the speaker. 

 

The last thing he expects is to hear  _ him _ .

 

"Lance?"

 

His voice sounds tired, like he hasn't gotten sleep in the last few days; it sounds rough, like he hasn't spoken in a while and it isn't accustomed to being used. 

 

"What?"

 

(Lance is certain his voice sounds the same.)

 

"Please tell me you're home," His voice sounds needy now, and Lance's heart ache becomes heavier. 

 

"What the fuck do you want Keith," Lance grunts. He doesn't want to talk any more, doesn't want to suddenly remember the fears he had that made him run away. 

 

"Open your door." 

 

"Keith, I swear to God," Lance doesn't want to think what he is thinking. Doesn't want to think that after seven months--seven fucking months of nothing, months of emptiness and rejection and melancholy music--that suddenly, he matters. 

 

"I said, open the fucking door, Lance." His voice is angry now and Lance can't believe how much he's missed it.

 

"Try and make me," Lance says, because despite the time apart, he's still used to their banter.

 

"Lance," His voice is strained, and Lance doesn't want to pity him, not when it's been seven fucking months, even if his voice is tired and soft and still gentle. 

 

"Please." 

 

And without realizing it, Lance is now standing in front of the door. Maybe it was just the pure force of his voice, it's ability to make Lance do whatever it asked, because even after seven months, Lance still loved him. 

 

Lance peels the door open slowly, certain he looks like a mess, eye bags dark and hair unbrushed. What he doesn't expect is a just as misshapen Keith, black hair pulled back into an ugly bun, clothes baggy and stained. 

 

And what Lance really doesn't expect is to see an acoustic guitar in his arms. 

 

"Why--why the hell are you here?" Lance manages to say, afraid if he tries to find any more words he might just crumble into pieces. 

 

"I--" Keith blinks, his eyes darting to the floor and then to Lance and to the floor again. He takes a deep breath, "I wrote a song."

 

Lance squints, "You came all the way to New York from Granbury to tell me you wrote a fucking song?" Lance laughs, but it's painful and he feels like he's about to burst into tears, "I've been writing songs for ages, Keith. It means nothing " 

 

"No, it's not--" Keith groans, running a hand through his hair, "The song is for you."

 

Lance wants to shout and yell and punch something but instead he stays calm, his nails digging into the base of his palm as his fists clench, "Keith. All of my songs were for you."

 

Keith's eyes widen, purple irises blooming before they disappear, eyes shutting tight. Keith takes a deep breath. 

 

"Lance, I'm sorry."

 

"You're seven months late, buddy." Lance spits out, not being able to find it in himself to feel guilty at the way Keith's expression falls.

 

"I--I just need to sing this song, okay? Please." And before Lance can shout at Keith and tell him that, No, he would not listen to his song, and that he should find a hotel for the night, before Lance can tell Keith that he doesn't need him, doesn't want him anymore, Keith speaks again.  

 

"For old times sake, sharpshooter?"

 

(A memory flies behind Lance's eyes, a slingshot and some rocks and a row of soda cans all lined up. Keith's smile as Lance knocked them down, one by one by one. Keith's dimples on flushed cheeks as he exclaimed that Lance was a sharpshooter, that he was one of a kind.)

 

Lance steps aside and Keith looks shocked, but a second passes and the shock is replaced by relief. Keith shuffles inside, wary but determined.

 

"Well?" Lance crosses his arms, leaning on the now shut door, "Go ahead."

 

"Right...right here?" Keith glances around the doorway. A pair of shoes lay on the floor next to him, and a jacket is hung up on the rack. 

 

"Don't see why not." Lance grunts, tapping his foot impatiently.

 

"Right, right, okay." Keith takes a deep breath, "well, um, you know I'm bad with my emotions--"

 

"No shit."

 

" _ Ahem _ ." Keith frowns at the interruption and Lance almost smiles, "As I was saying, I'm bad with emotions but as soon as you left I knew I fucked up.  Shiro told me I had to figure this out myself and I no clue what to do. I thought about you every day, Lance."

 

"That so?" Lance huffs, "So much that you couldn't even call me? Text me?"

 

"I didn't--" Keith groans, "I didn't know what to say, Lance. That it turns I'm actually gay and in love with you? After I rejected you? I didn't--I couldn't find a way to do it."

 

Lance begins to retort before really processing what Keith had just said. He opens his mouth and closes it, opens and closes, opens and closes--

 

"I'm going to start singing now." Keith states, his cheeks bright red. 

 

Lance just nods.

 

Keith begins strumming and Lance closes his eyes. As far as he knew, Keith didn't play the guitar seven months ago. 

 

_ "If you were here beside me, instead of in New York, if the curve of you was curved on me." _

 

And seven months ago, Keith didn't sing. Or at least he never did to Lance. 

 

_ "I'd tell you that I loved you, before I even knew you, 'cause I loved the simple thought of you". _

 

_ "If our hearts are never broken, then there's no joy in the mending, there's so much this hurt can teach us both." _

 

Lance watches the way Keith's fingers strum, the way his eyes are half lidded, the way his lips move slowly as he sings.

 

_ "There's distance and there's silence, your words have never left me, they're the prayer that I say every day." _

 

A small smile tugs at the end of Keith's lips and Lance feels like the air has been sucked out his lungs. 

 

_ "Come on, come out, come here, come here." _

 

_ "Come on, come out, come here, come here." _

 

Keith's eyes are closed as he strums and the dim fluorescent light makes Keith glow a faint blue. 

 

_ "The lone neon nights and the ache of the ocean," _

 

_ "And the fire that was starting to spark." _

 

Keith's eyes open and he meets Lance's, smiling slightly before closing them again.

 

_ "I miss it all, from the love to the lightning, and the lack of it snaps me in two." _

 

Keith strums, humming and tapping his foot as he does.

 

_ "If you were here beside me, instead of in New York, in the arms you said you'd never leave.” _

 

Keith opens his eyes again, looking directly at Lance as he sings the next line, 

 

_ “I'd tell you that it's simple and it was only ever thus, there is nowhere else that I belong." _

 

Lance is suddenly aware of the fact that there are tears on his cheeks but he doesn't care enough to wipe them away. 

_ “Come on, come out, come here, come here." _

 

_ "Come on, come out, come here, come here." _

 

Keith leans forward, continuing to hum as he wipes Lance's cheek with his sleeve. Lance wants to pull away but instead doesn't move at all. Keith brings his hand back down to the strings to finish playing. 

 

_ "Just give me a sign that there's an end and a beginning to the quiet chaos driving me mad." _

 

_ "The lone neon lights and the walls of the ocean, and the fire that will never go out.” _

 

Keith stops strumming, hands falling to his side, his guitar hangs limply across his chest by the strap. He seems to be waiting for Lance to say something.

 

"Where did you learn how to play?" Lance mumbles, taking a step towards Keith.

 

"I--I watched a lot of videos."

 

Lance reaches forward and takes Keith's hand, lifting it up to examine the blisters on the fingertips.

 

"I'll show you how to strum so this doesn't happen." Lance mutters, his own fingers dancing along the tips of Keith's, his thumb running over the rougher areas slowly. 

 

"I...Lance, I--"

 

Lance lets Keith's hand go, biting the inside of his cheek when the other frowns at the loss of physical connection. 

 

"You can spend the night here," Lance turns away from Keith, stepping into the main room of his apartment. 

 

"Thank you," Keith mumbles, following behind Lance.

 

Lance stops abruptly, biting his lips until he tastes something metallic and turns to face Keith, "I...still love you."

 

And the flash of hope that passes Keith's face almost makes Lance regret what he is about to say next. 

 

"But I can't be with you," Lance states, "Not right now. I came here to become something. And I'm not there yet." 

 

"I'll wait," Keith says firmly, voice and gaze unwavering. "I'll wait as long as I have to." 

 

Lance sighs, rolling his eyes, "You're still stubborn, huh?"

 

Keith pouts, his lower lip jutting out in an unfairly endearing manner. "I'll wait."

 

"We can talk in the morning," Lance turns back around and continues walking to the spare room. "There's a shower there and clothes in there," Lance points to various places in the room. Nobody's slept in it since Lotor, and that felt like ages ago. 

 

Keith steps in, looking around a bit before turning around to Lance, "Oh, and Lance."

 

Lance raises his eyebrows, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, unimpressed, "Yes?"  

 

"I'm not...I'm not going to tell you to rely on me a hundred percent or to be dependent, but I'm here. There's no reason for you to do anything alone." Keith says this quietly, barely above a whisper, but Lance hears it clearly. It feels like Keith's lips are next to his ears, like he hears the words and they spread out through his body, to his heart and to the tips of his fingers. 

 

Lance stays silent for a moment before snorting, "You've been spending too much time around Shiro."

 

"Hey!"

 

"But thanks," Lance smiles, and though it is small, it is his first genuine one in months, "I'll keep that in mind." 

 

Lance wishes Keith a goodnight before shuffling back to the living room, where he sits on the couch, Lunacita in his lap.

 

The city is still loud outside, but the loneliness Lance feels drifts away. He can hear the shower running and he lets himself, just this once, have faith.

 

Lance picks up his phone, clicking on the messages app and replying to unread texts from Hunk and Pidge, both from days ago. He makes a note to call Shiro and his little sister in the morning. 

 

He begins to strum, humming quietly as he does. 

 

And though he still can't find the words to sing, he can tell they will come to him soon enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> dislcaimer: i changed the last line of the song in the fic bc it was too sad  
> thank u for reading <33


End file.
